


i built myself a shrine

by aghost (bristow)



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Angst, Based on a Tumblr Post, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Friendship, M/M, Memories, Multi, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-12
Updated: 2014-06-12
Packaged: 2018-02-04 09:03:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,180
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1773433
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bristow/pseuds/aghost
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>the first time steve went by that street, he didn't look. he wanted to look. oh, how he <i>wanted</i> to look, look over and see right thru the rugged walls and into the dimly lit room, to a bar and see a certain smiling soldier. but he didn't. because he knew, knew he wouldn't see the smiling soldier and even though he knew that the not seeing would probably kill him inside, oh how we <i>needed</i> to look.</p>
            </blockquote>





	i built myself a shrine

The first time Steve went by that street, he didn't look. He wanted to look. Oh, how he _wanted_ to look, look over and see right thru the rugged walls and into the dimly lit room, to a bar and see a certain smiling soldier. But he didn't. Because he knew, knew he wouldn't see the smiling soldier and even though he knew that the not seeing would probably kill him inside, oh how we _needed_ to look. Kill him all over again, like every time he heard a certain song that Bucky would hum back in the day, terribly off tune and right in Steve's ear, or whenever he inflicted pain on himself - the pain that was exhibit at the museum - where the smiling soldier's face stared right into his eyes, right into his very soul and out the other side. No, he couldn't make himself look, not that time.

******

The second time, he didn't have a choice. He and Sam were pinned down. Left, right and center they were surrounded. It was a warehouse now, abandoned since the 70s as far as he could tell, too old to be trusted to be used for anything, but too historic a site to be torn down. At least that's what Steve liked to think. He and Sam took cover inside, Steve's stomach turning to stone, then to sand and back. Like Coney Island all over again.  
"You all right, Cap?" Sam asked thru gritted teeth, holding a gun in one bruised hand and the other clutched at his stomach. Bleeding from two bullet holes that Steve had let get thru, his eyes looking like two pain infused pools and he was the one asking _are you ok?_ Steve looked down at Sam, nodding briskly.  


"Yeah of course, just fine. Why wouldn't I be fine?"  


"This is the place, isn't? The bar Natasha told me about?" Natasha. Dear, sweet, depressingly concerned about Steve and his life in general, Natasha.  


"It's not a bar anymore." Steve paused as a bullet whizzed by. "It doesn't matter anyway, it's just a bar that's not a bar anymore. If you don't mind, can we just get shot at in peace?" Sam nodded in silence, the nod that Steve had seen oh so many times before, the one that screamed volumes but never muttered a sentence, and resumed his firing.  


******

The third time Steve saw it, it still wasn't a bar or a warehouse riddled with bullet holes either. It was something more tangible than that, something at least a step in the right direction of a bar. Steve stepped inside the cafe, pausing as he let the sights and sounds slowly seep in. Mustiness still hung in the air, like the memory of where the bar used to be had refused to leave, not altogether. Diners sat at small tables, as some song that sounded vaguely familiar silently filled what empty spaces that were left. He swallowed around the seemingly ever present lump in his throat and walked towards the back, head down low and eyes practically on the floor.  


"About time, Captain. I was beginning to get worried." Steve slid into the overstuffed seat of the booth, pulling down his hood as Natasha looked at him (and right on thru), with her half smirk in place.  


"The place has changed since I was last here. No bullet marks this time, very confusing." Natasha twisted her straw around, still piercing Steve with her gaze. "Why am I here? McDonalds not good enough for you now?"  


"Oh, it is," she replied with a shrug, "Clint's already ordering my regular. So, how long has it been?"  


"How long has what been?" Steve asked, leaning back into his seat.  


"Since you've been here?"  


"About two months. When Sam and I-"  


"No, I mean _really_ here Steve." He met Natasha's gaze, strong, unyielding yet with a sense of kindness, never pity but always kindness. Hell, he wished she'd just let it go.  


"It's gone Natasha." Steve shrugged softly, running his fingers along the groves in the table edge, "The place I knew is gone. It's not coming back. And I don't think he- I mean _I_ am either." He sighed, rubbed his eyes and looked at Natasha, still sitting calmly before him. "Is that a bad thing, Natasha?" Steve asked, leaning forward, "Cause I don't think I know anymore. What's bad and what's right and wrong."  


"Hope." She said simply, like one word summed up all Steve's doubts and more. "You need hope, Steve. Like you've said, Barnes is still out there. And who knows," she stood up, facing Steve, "Hope could be closer than you think." She tapped the back of the booth and smiled, walking away without another word. Steve watched her leave, until she disappeared into the street.

He turned his head back to the opposite seat, where Natasha had tapped. Slowly standing up, he slipped into her bench, twisting around to look at the corner. The wooden paneling had the look of being old, with peeling edges revealing a wooded base underneath, showing the true age of the cheap booth seats. He frowned, shifting closer. A small word was crudely carved into the wood - scratched probably with a fork - and small shavings were piled up in the corner of the seat. Like Natasha's _'hope'_ , Steve heard another word that seemed to sum up everything about his life. His breathing stilled as he traced the small inscription with his thumb, swallowing hard. To anyone else, the crudely written word would have meant crap. But to Steve, it meant the world. _"Punk."_

******

It was the first time he'd been back since... When? He didn't know. 

_'Are you ready to follow Captain America into the jaws of death?'_  
He watched from across the street as the one they called Black Widow sat waiting, waiting for who he hoped she was waiting for. He stood, hidden by the shadows, like a million times before, just waiting. But this time was different. Instead of a target to show, he waited for...his future? He didn't know, but the one thing he did know, he was waiting for his past.

_'Hell no. That skinny little kid from Brooklyn? The one who didn't know when to walk away from a fight?'_  
Finally, he came. Sat down, talked and watched as the Widow left. He went over, to the other seat and found it. Bucky didn't know exactly what it all meant, but he knew that the way to his future (if someone like him deserved one at all) was thru the man across the street. He stood up, quickly walking outside. Bucky knew he couldn't see him from where he stood, shrouded by his old friends the shadows. But he stopped, looked side to side and then straight across the road and into Bucky's eyes and Bucky could have sworn his weary face showing a sign of something, change from weariness to something else. Determination? A bus blocked Bucky's view and he turned into the shadows, leaving Steve behind.

_'I'm following him.'_


End file.
